


Eclipse

by grimey_gal



Category: Child's Play/Chucky (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguing, Chucky just wants to take care of his boy basically, Edgeplay, I'd tag bondage but... Chucky's not gonna need it lol, M/M, Makeup Sex, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Other, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Verbal Foreplay, because we all know Andy has one, bottom!andy, commission fill, commissions, he just wants to know he's a good boy, some chapters of set up because I don't know how to just write smut, the typical run around for these two, top!Chucky, wow for once I'm writing it this way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimey_gal/pseuds/grimey_gal
Summary: The earth and the moon rotate about each other, and so should they. Every once in a while, there has to be an eclipse. He thinks it’s about time.
Relationships: Andy Barclay/Chucky | Charles Lee Ray
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

The dripping of broken faucet head in the kitchen is what’s driving him near mad just now; he counts each soft tinkling  _ plop, plop _ that splatters against the chrome basin. It isn’t the loudest sort of noise. He should be able to ignore it. It doesn’t change the fact that it’s maddeningly louder than nearly any other sound in the room. Nevermind the fact that the television is on as always. He can hear the damn sink dripping away, without a care in the world, without a thought of how it’s affecting anyone or anything around it. He finds himself tapping the couch arm with his index each time another droplet pings its way in the basin. He doesn’t have to see it to know when it will drop anymore. He’s realized the pattern. If he wasn’t so annoyed - hell, he’d be entertained by the process.  _ Ping, ping _ .  _ Tap, tap _ . The way he can tap on demand, just in time with the droplets. He’s almost proud of it. Except he knows that other people could probably accomplish this as well, and this isn’t the most difficult feat. 

Andy should be home at any time now. He makes a bet. The clock shows a quarter until nine. If each droplet falls at one  _ ping  _ per second, it’s sixty pings to a minute. Andy comes home around nine. Sometimes a bit later. He estimates around ten minutes past nine. Give or take. It could be seven past, or fifteen. Ten is a good middle ground. If it takes sixty  _ pings  _ per minute, and he has, on average, twenty-five minutes to wait, that’s around fifteen-hundred  _ pings _ . 

Can he handle that many until Andy stumbles his way in? 

He’s heard it somewhere before, that if you merely count to ten, and repeat the cycle, a long time doesn’t feel quite as long. Just ten more pings. And then ten more. So on and so forth. Surely he can wait. 

He could also do away with the process entirely, and sit on the patio and close the door behind him, and hear no pings at all. Light a fat one and forget until he hears Andy calling after him, seeking his whereabouts. 

Andy’s been in the habit lately, of calling for him if he isn’t near the door when he comes home. Something about it makes this delicious little slithering around his chest. Andy has never said it aloud, has never been the type when it comes to him, to admit he needs him. But he knows. Andy shows it in little ways. Staying up until he chooses to go to bed. Lingering at the door frame of the guest room, holding onto straggling conversations. Watching him with those large doe eyes, silently pleading that they communicate just a bit longer. Hushed golden-browns that glow from the reflection of the bedside table, doing all the talking for him. Offering to get him drinks, to do his laundry. It isn’t a big deal, Andy would explain. He’s doing his own anyways, might as well save on the water bill and do it all together. He’s on the way to the fridge.

He’s lost track of  _ pings _ . At this point, it doesn’t matter. He’s preoccupied, anyways. 

He wants to test it, and yet he doesn’t. The joy of watching Andy stumble over his words, should he accuse him of any niceties or preferences towards him, would be enthralling, but short lived. He knows what would happen. Andy would deny it, and then the favors would stop. And he likes the favors. As if Andy is paying his respects. Something about it makes him  _ hunger _ . It rubs his ego just right, and it gives him a little something to base his imaginations off of to help him stroke off until he falls asleep. He wonders if Andy sees the left behind evidence, when he takes the sheets to wash. He wonders if he takes the load, and knows. 

He needs to focus on the  _ pings _ , or he is going to lose himself right now, and it’s too close to Andy coming home for that to happen. Or perhaps he could, just to watch the horror pull at his Andy’s face as he walks through the door., and finds him on the couch, disheveled and cock unsheathed. For someone who is no longer a virgin, Andy behaves, well, like a  _ virgin _ . Nevermind the fact he can speak sin rather fluently, when the lights are down and the doors are locked. 

It’s already nine. There are only a mere 600  _ pings _ . He can count to ten sixty times. Then, he can bitch at Andy about the broken faucet. 

It’s later than he’d anticipated, by a good five minutes. The doorknob rattles right in the middle of  _ Deadliest Catch _ , which isn’t something he’s normally into, but it passes the time, and the food channel had nothing he was interested in. He watches from his seat, lounging like a predator cat in wait, as Andy tears his shoes off at the door. 

“Here comes the kid,” he calls, and he hopes he isn’t as obvious as Andy is, in the little things he does and says. Andy doesn’t seem to be the intuitive kind, so he’s in luck. He throws up the blunt, which is half smoked by now, but he knows Andy won’t mind. “Help finish me off, would ya?”

Andy grimaces. “The way I’ve thought about it before,” he returns, but changes upon seeing the blunt. “Oh, you meant in  _ that  _ way.” 

Chucky chooses to ignore this, especially because Andy is clearly not as upset as he pretends to be. There are a million ways he could have interpreted it, and he isn’t entirely sure if Andy had taken it in a sensual way or in a homicidal way. He’s hoping it was the former - although he wouldn’t complain if it was the latter, either. Something about Andy tearing him apart and panting in the resulting bloodbath, chest heaving in a bloodied havoc, gets his heart pumping. Something else, too.

Fuck. He was trying not to do this right now. 

With him and Andy, it’s hard to tell when he can make his intentions known. On certain occasions, Andy relays the same desires, shows his teeth, and when they get tangled up and fucked, the cursing and the sweating and rolling is more than satisfactory. But on others, Andy sprintraps shut, as if the idea is repulsing - and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt. Not that he’s against the lying. He’s done it plenty of times before. But he’s getting a bit tired of the charade in chasing his shadows, pretending as if it was routine. It’s hard to snap back to their old cat and mouse when there’s fresh off the eye memories of them being something different and more. If anything, it’s damn near impossible. Beforehand, it had been relatively easy, handling himself and pretending the inner desire simply didn’t exist. There hadn’t been the possibility of it then. Now, it is a reality, and he knows it’s requited, and it’s nothing short of exhausting, to pretend otherwise. 

“How else were you supposed to take it, Andy?” he asks, and this time, his wording is intentional. Andy busies himself with the blunt, and he watches as it touches his lips, watches his mouth pucker as he blows the smoke slowly, gently. He blinks twice, quickly, and turns to the television. Andy doesn’t answer his question, so he’s assuming tonight is one of those where they’re going to pretend. When he reaches for the blunt, and their fingers brush, he tries to let it linger, tries to make it obvious, but Andy pulls away quickly. Almost as if he was disgusted. Not that Chucky would blame him, but it still smarts as if his hand has been slapped by a ruler. 

“You still watching this?” is what Andy says, and Chucky grunts noncommittally. Holding the gurgling surge of petulant anger filling up his belly. It doesn’t matter what’s on. His thoughts will be the same, regardless of what menial distractions are around him. 

What unsettles him the most is how Andy so easily slips into this facade. How does he just forget, Chucky wonders, the now copious amount of times they’ve copulated on this very couch? How does he rest against the arm and the old frayed blanket and simply choose to not remember? How does he pretend again, as if it had never happened - and as if it would never happen? There’s something frightening in this boy’s mind, he thinks, that allows him to be able to live as if this were the truth. And it’s probably - no, it  _ definitely  _ is - his fault. He probably planted it there, long ago, when they first met. Karma is a bitch in every way.

And just when he thinks things cannot possibly be more aggravating, he hears it again.

_ Ping. Ping _ .  _ Ping _ . 

“This shit really doesn’t drive you insane?” he spews, angrier than he’d meant, harsher than he’d intended, and he means the faucet, but he also  _ doesn’t _ , and that is, without a doubt, the most frustrating part. The way they  _ ping  _ around and can’t fix the problem. Why can’t they just solve the problem?

“Why can’t you just fix the damn sink?” he continues, when Andy stares at him, dumbfounded. It’s Andy’s fault and it isn’t, that he’s the Antebellum of a geyser. This could be solved, if Andy wasn’t such a goddamned closet case. And he thought  _ he  _ was bad. At least he says and does things - albeit in a roundabout way. Andy is so unreadable it hinges on the line of psychopathy. And Chucky knows psychopaths. Met a few of them. He was pretty sure he was one, until he came toe to toe with this guy. It’s of his own design, really. This is his own Frankenstein, this monster of a man in front of him. 

_ Ping, ping _ .  _ Ping _ . 

It’s off a beat. He notices it when it happens instantly. Andy still has not responded, his eyes wide with the deer in the headlights kind of lost glaze filling them. He should stop. This is sign number one; Andy is not with him, and he needs to pause for him to catch up. There’s a red light, a caution, a sharp curve, a stop sign - but he’s heavy footed, and he never got his license, anyways. 

“You fucking irritate me when you pull this shit, Andy.” He cannot put a pause on his mouth. He dearly wishes Andy would. There were times when he and Tiffany would rabble particularly badly, and he always knew instantly when he’d taken it too far. Tiffany would immediately swing her hand back. Sometimes, she would let it fly. At least in that way, he’d always felt they were even. Sometimes, Andy will do this too. But in this moment, he isn’t, and he’s falling into silence,  _ ramming  _ into it, over and over again. And each time, it hurts worse than the last, and yet he cannot stop. 

“You want me to fix the sink right now?” Andy -  _ fuck him _ , sincerely - has just opened his stupid mouth, and his words are clumsy and slow, as if he’s still processing it. “It’s just a little drip, is all. We can fix it tomorrow.” 

“ _ Tomorrow _ , huh?” he snarls, he can feel his lip curl when he talks. “ _ Sure _ , Andy. We can just wait until  _ tomorrow _ , and then the  _ next  _ tomorrow, and then the  _ next  _ one. Why don’t you just pull my dick off, and wait to sew it back on with your clumsy ass sausage fingers tomorrow too?” 

Two things. One, he is well aware of the fact that Andy has anything  _ but  _ clumsy fingers. All too aware. Two, Andy is very clearly in a different place, and not the sort that has him ready to throw back barbed quips on a whim. He should hold off on this conversation altogether, grumble under his breath one last remark, and call it a day. The problem is, he  _ can’t _ . He’s frustrated, and not entirely about the sink, but it doesn’t help, that it continues to  _ ping  _ away and remind him, something needs fixing.

“Are you drunk?” Andy asks, and Chucky swings, without a second thought. He doesn’t hit him, but he comes awfully close, barrelling his fist into the couch cushions. Whether he is inebriated or not should not be an issue. He may be, but it is beside the point. The point being that he is tired, and irritated, and inexplicably and inconveniently aroused. The fact that Andy is very obviously ignoring his uncomfortable erection only draws more frustration out of him. Andy is extremely talented at driving a lot of emotions out of him, and right now, it’s a hot, irritating anger, digging its talons into his neck and pushing him to scream.

Which he does. “This is why I can’t fuck with you, Barclay!” he screeches, and Andy is grabbing his hands as he throws his fistfuls of anger at him, pummeling into air, feeling like a puppet on strings. As if Andy is directing the movement of his arms and hands, which he does  _ not  _ like right now. Admittedly, sometimes he does. Now is not one of those times, though. It only adds kerosene to his engine-like brain, and he can feel himself steaming and puffing off of it. He howls at him again, just for good measure, and if you asked him in the aftermath, he would say he didn’t see the look in Andy’s eyes. Truthfully, he really doesn’t, and he will wish he had later. “You’ve always been like this. Bland. Mediocre. Average. Fuck that,  _ less than average _ . If being average was the Tour de France, you’d put out your tires and  _ walk _ it! And you’re okay with it, too. That’s the part that makes me want to rip your heart out the most. You’re okay with being good for  _ nothing _ !” 

He can hear his words echoing long after he says them. Around this time is when Tiffany would slap his cheek, or tear into him in a screeching furiosity.  _ Do you realize who you’re talking to?  _ she’d ask.  _ I know you’re not talking to  _ me _.  _ And then usually, they would fuck, hard and passionately. Probably not the healthier way to engage with a supposed loved one. But it had worked for them - until it hadn’t. But it is what he’d been accustomed to, which is why when Andy says nothing, as he so often does in times like this, he feels a draft in his ribcage, hollowing him out and leaving him cold and adrift. Andy is giving him nothing to go off of, staring at him like this, obviously hurt but choosing not to engage and rise to the challenge. Or perhaps he can’t. He can never tell with him. He might have taken it a bit too far this time. He has before - it’s sort of his forte, among many other undesirable talents, to be wildly out of line and inappropriate. 

Andy still has not said anything, and he gears up to say something again, just to see if he can poke the sleeping bear enough to get him to bare his teeth. But the claws are all retracted, and Andy slowly stands instead, and he’s trying very hard not to watch the slide of his shirt around his hips, or the way he’s hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, pulling the waistband down but not down  _ enough _ . His efforts are for naught though, as he stares (open-mouthed he’s sure) lost in his own thought already, having forgotten he’d just verbally fucked himself in a very unattractive way. 

“Oh,” Andy finally manages, in a matter of fact kind of way. Low voice, low words. Soft and almost unheard. “Okay.”

And then Andy is slipping down the hallway, out of his grasp, and he is irritated, horny, and disappointed in himself . The third feeling is not a new one, but it’s happening more and more often than he’d like. It’s an annoying sick feeling that is nausea, but not enough for him to vomit and let it all out and be over it. It mixes in with his acids and leaves him ill, and this only causes his already sour mood to dampen all the more, if that could be possible. 

“Run away, then!” he shouts, just for good measure, although he immediately regrets it. There isn’t a point in going after him. He knows how this night is going to end. “You know I’m right! That’s why you’re tucking your tail like a little bitch, you Lassie  _ fuck _ !” 

The  _ pinging  _ in the sink will not stop. Growling, he reaches for the left behind roach, singing his fingers and dropping it in the ashtray instantly. He curses indiscreetly, shoving the tray as if it were in the wrong, and taking a short-lived delight in the way it topples over the coffee table’s edge. Then, he fiddles with the leftover paper and stumbles out through the sliding doors to the patio, slamming the door behind him. Louder than usual, just for theatrical effect. It does nothing for him when the cold air slams against his skin, biting at his nose and cheeks. Autumn in Naperville is bitter. 

He fumbles with his smoke, hands already trembling. One of the less favorable things of deciding to give up on his old habits (which he hasn’t entirely, he just doesn’t let Andy know about it and he does a fairly good job at keeping his body count low he thinks) is that it causes his nerves to malfunction. An addiction is an addiction, he supposes, but the withdrawals of this particular one are brutal. He has half a mind to tear into his own skin, just to sense blood again. To see it, smell it- hell, even  _ taste  _ it, at this point. The hunger never leaves, and being agitated does no wonders for it. 

He inhales, counting the thumping in his neck. Then he breathes out and watches the smoke, still counting. Ten seconds in, ten seconds out. Each time, trying to calm himself down and just recounting what had just happened. How fast it had happened. He had been in a very different mood, waiting on Andy to come home, and then, suddenly, he was disgusted with him. In a matter of minutes, really, when he looks back on it. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he growls, aloud. Dragging out the  _ uhh _ . He flicks off the end of his blunt, inhaling it deeply again. As usual, he’s done something to fuck it all up. At this point, it should be the status quo. He shouldn’t be all too taken aback by it. And he isn’t, really. But he never knows how to make up for it, when he fucks up. 

With Tiffany, he’d usually buy flowers, or offer to let her watch whatever she wanted with him for a week. Maybe take her to a nice restaurant, for once. And back then, she had eaten it up. It says more about him than it does about her. He mashes his palm against his head. There’s a migraine beginning to develop, he’s sure of it. Living with Andy - he can’t really say  _ being _ with Andy because they’re not really together, not  _ really _ \- has only continued to show him his own shortcomings. Several times, including this one, it’s caused him to reflect on just how poorly he’d run through Tiffany in their relationship. 

He drops his blunt over the side, which is just  _ symbolic _ to him at this point. Just pile it on with the other irritatingly stupid shit he’s done. 

  
Having had enough, he returns into the apartment, but promptly decides that he’s going to sleep on the patio if he’s in the hopes of having any rest. The  _ pinging  _ is near driving him insane, if his massively growing guilt has not done so already. He slams the porch door as he goes back out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A commission fill for a friend. I'm sorry it's taking so long to complete. It was never meant to be more than one part, and I'm posting this just so you have something to hold you over until we get to what you really asked for. I just don't know how to present smut on it's own. I've tried it before and it didn't feel right, lol.


	2. 2

His neck aches and his back is sore. His head is pounding sorely as well, and this doesn’t help in the least. His mouth, dry and thick, reminds him all the more that he’s still out on the patio, hungover and still a bit crossfaded, from the night before. He sits up, groaning and rubbing at his tailbone, listening to the way his bones ache and his joints snap. It’s as if his lengthy and persecutive transition was for nothing; his body behaves as that of an old man still, despite the doll body just freshly become human. He’s hardly been here as a fully warm-blooded organism, and yet his physical form says otherwise. 

He groans, cursing angrily. Only a minute in the waking world and he’s already in a sore mood, no pun intended. For a moment, he forgets why he’d decided to take an impromptu camping trip to the patio, and then slowly, his memory finally decides to join him in consciousness and remind him of every little thing. 

It was the damn sink’s fault. If it hadn’t been so goddamned aggravating, he would have never lost his temper. He’s been storing away his sexual frustration like a dutiful old crockpot for the past few months now, and it’s been fine until last night. The  _ pinging  _ had just been the last straw. One fuse blown in the pot, and he’d boiled over. 

Still, he cannot help but to feel guilty. Now that he is sober, his self-awareness is making its rare appearance. It’s becoming less rare the more he shares his days with Barclay. As much as it causes him to cringe and want to perhaps use his violent tendencies on himself, he can’t forget anything he’d said and done. What had Andy done, really, besides sit there and take it patiently, as he often did? Why hadn’t he just up and asked,  _ Andy, would you like to fuck, huh? Because just the sight of ya’ makes me horny and my boner is about to make a guest appearance in your mouth _ . 

It shouldn’t have been that hard, at this point. They’ve done it often enough, and Andy’s seen the dirtiest parts of him already, figuratively and quite literally. There’s no more shame to be had about it all, really. He could have just asked, and then Andy could have said  _ no _ or  _ yes _ , depending. Blushing either way, before settling into the mood and destroying him, and then piecing him back together, the way he always seems to manage so perfectly. Chucky doesn’t like to believe in  _ fate  _ and  _ soulmates _ , the thought of it makes him want to regurgitate his last meal into the nearest bowl, but there’s no denying that he and Andy  _ fit _ . A bit like those lego pieces that snap together and you have to tear your digits just to pull them apart. Just a bit too perfect.

No, it shouldn’t have been hard. But for reasons unexplainable, he hadn’t done it right. And now, as he goes back through the night, recalling each event, one by one, the absolute confusion and hurt on Andy’s face is what sticks to his squishy gray cerebral matter the most. It’s the way his eyebrows scrunch, he thinks, that makes it obvious. Andy is hard to read, but he’s been learning. His eyebrows will pinch upward, like they’re trying to hold his face together. His eyes were wide too, wide and wet, and he’d started to redden up on his nose and cheekbones. It could have been from his copious consumption of alcohol, but putting the pieces together, Chucky knows better. As impossible as it seems lately, he’d managed to sting Andy Barclay - and he’d stung him good, too. Although, he isn’t sure  _ how  _ or  _ why _ . He’s said worse before, and he thinks he was pretty tame last night, all things considered. 

He supposes it doesn’t matter, though. It doesn’t matter how  _ he  _ feels, because Andy’s the one who retreated into his room, instead of putting up a fight. Whatever demons he was battling last night, they left him more vulnerable, and something he’d said struck a tender nerve. 

He shouldn’t have lost it. He should have fixed the sink himself, and he shouldn’t have lost it. He should cut his tongue out, save both of them the trouble. Maybe Andy has a fetish for mutes. If he didn’t before, he certainly could have developed one by now. 

This objective in mind, he stands and stretches, cracking knuckles and stretching tendons. He has no idea how he’s going to turn things around with Andy after last night. They’re already on thin ice, and he just skated right over it - and probably plunged them into cold dark water. He has no idea how he’s going to get them out - and  _ he  _ is going to be the one who fixes it, for once. He’s tired of the embarrassment of Andy patching things over and over again, and cleaning him up. He’s tired, and his pride can’t keep taking these hits. He might be the size of a dwarf from Walt Disney, but he’s a  _ man,  _ for fuck’s sake. He can fix the sink, at least. 

He’s  _ going  _ to fix the sink. That’s easy enough. He knows how to do that. He can start there, and figure things out with Andy on the way. At the very least, once the dripping is very much shut off, he’ll be able to think straight. Or think gay, he supposes, in his case, if he wants to find the answer to his problem. Is that what he’d be, all things considered? Frankly, he hasn’t ever been much into men prior to Andy (and Eddie, but he doesn’t think too much on him. It’s a bit too painful). He ought to ring Tiffany and ask. She’s been pretty on top of all the ins and outs of fag culture. Gay culture? Homosexual culture? He isn’t sure. He can say  _ fag  _ if he is one, he thinks. He feels like he’s been told this - specifically by Jess, or Kristen, although he can’t remember who. It’s always been in his vernacular, and he supposes it all worked out, in the end. It was just a premonition of who he was supposed to become. 

It’s not all as bad as he’d thought it would be either, admitting that. To himself or anyone else. The only person from his early life who is still around is Tiffany, and she has proven to be more than supportive - although he’s always known this about her. Andy clearly hadn’t minded. The girls - the  _ women _ , they’re adults now - were more than welcoming, and even Kristen had softened up, just to ease his worries about it. Even now, he has the strangest feeling about it when he remembers, all warm inside. He blames it on the fact he’d had Jack that night. The brown liquid is infamous for heating up the chest. The twins hadn’t really needed an explanation; as Glenda put it,  _ they could smell it on him _ . The worst person to come out to, he realized, was himself. 

Just like the only person really blue-balling anyone is himself. He barks out a laugh, digging through the hallway closet for tools. 

The sink, as he’d assumed, is easy enough to fix. It’s only an old cartridge, and even his small hands can use a wrench to unscrew the faucet handles to find which one needs to be replaced. The most difficult task is finding what make and model the cartridge was, and huffing and puffing to a Home Depot and back. Once he has everything he needs though, it is dealt with fairly quickly. The dripping has stopped, and now he can think. 

Andy is a sap. That much is obvious. And  _ he’s _ a horny wreck, and that much is also  _ painfully  _ obvious. Very painfully. But he knows - it’s simply a fact, there’s no ifs ands or buts around it - that Andy has carnal needs of his own, try as he might to cover the fact up. There’s probably a shame aspect around it. God knows  _ he  _ had one. At least his interest was in someone  _ attractive _ . Andy has to come to terms with a mild form of teratophilia. It’s indefinitely a steeper hill to climb. He’s got to work on at least  _ one  _ desirable trait. Andy can’t be a saint forever. 

Well. One. He’s a handyman. The sink is tightened and squeaky clean new. He purses his mouth, scouring up all his thoughts. Two - he’s a damned good cook. He picked up some things from Tiffany in the kitchen, and with all the time on his hands, he’s gotten pretty good. Better than Andy’s TV dinners and burnt pan disasters, that’s for sure. Three - he’s fucking  _ hilarious _ , and there’s no doubt about that. He doesn’t have enough fingers to count how many times he’s made Andy double over next to him on the couch in laughter, choking on his own smoke. Kristen had even admitted - begrudgingly, he and Kristen are  _ morbidly  _ alike when it comes to pride - that Andy had started to smile a lot more, since he’d come back around. Since he’d settled into the apartment, after their fateful run in at the park. 

Four. He pauses. He can’t think of a four. Three ought to be good enough, though. Five would be better. He’d like to be a fistful of good things. That makes him laugh aloud. 

“I can be a  _ fistful  _ of good things, alright,” he mutters, to no one. He is  _ so  _ funny. Andy should know this. Andy should be so lucky. 

Tiffany always said he was good in bed. It isn’t that he’s trying to sell himself out like a whore - although he supposes he sort of is, thinking this way - but that could be a four. It would be a solid four, too. He hasn’t really shown Andy that whole side of himself yet though, shamefully enough. He’s been greedy and selfish in the sheets, and Andy has given more than he’s taken. Not that it hasn’t been fun, being the pillow princess. He does love being spoiled. It’s always been his Achilles heel. But he can be a giver too, and there’s a different kind of satisfaction that comes from it, doing the spoiling. And Andy is ripe for spoiling. He can sense it. 

Which is why he was so frustrated last night. Andy has been jittery and overly sensitive when they touch, or when Chucky dares to broach the topic of them being intimate. He’d done it last night, jerking away at the lightest touch. He’d wanted it too, and was either afraid to ask or angry about it. Chucky knows this. He hadn’t been an asshole for nothing. He may have crossed a line somewhere, but it hadn’t been unprovoked. Andy picks and chooses when he wants to open up to him, sometimes loving and passionate and almost too much, and then other times he’s nothing at all, frigid and locked away, out of reach. It was only fair that he’d played the role of a jilted lover; he was one then, and has been many times. 

Still, with Andy he needs to be  _ gentle _ . Andy can play the big strong man all he wants - and he plays the role well, Chucky won’t deny this - but underneath, he is a lamb with no shepherd, playing pretense and donning a wolf’s costume. He plays the role because he feels he has to. Chucky knows this is his fault. Andy will do anything to keep him, although he has no idea why. But he will. And he’s sure it’s been fun for him. Andy has pretended a bit too well to not have enjoyed holding the reins as gleefully as he has. Still. The earth and the moon rotate about each other, and so should they. Every once in a while, there has to be an eclipse. He thinks it’s about time. 

If he had the power to demolish Andy with just his words, his words should have the power to revive him, only to pull him apart in the way he ought to have the first time. If he can only hold onto that confidence when he sees Andy in person. The man always makes him all kinds of jelly-soft inside, and he’s so focused on how out of his element he is that he never gets a hold of himself in time. He just needs to do the impossible: think  _ outside  _ of himself. 

Another harsh cough of laughter, and then he lets his mind wander, for once not trying to stop himself. Hours of television, and he isn’t listening, nor is he watching. He leaves the volume up, just for noise, but he finds himself distracted. Andy on his mind, as he has always been, but in different ways. In enjoyable ways. He catches himself humming aloud, tucking away the tools back in the side closet, and sliding the patio door open again to water the plants (another hobby that he’s started to entertain; and you can fuck off if you have a problem with it). He rings Tiffany on the phone, and she’s - reasonably - surprised at how pleasant he sounds. 

“If I didn’t know better,” she huffs, although not bitterly, “I’d think I was talking to one of my girlfriends.” 

On normal occasions, he would have considered this a stab at his masculinity, and would have retorted with something very colorful and borderline derogatory. Actually, it wouldn’t have been borderline, it would have simply been offensive. 

“Maybe I am,” he says instead, and if the phone was the old classic kind, with a looping cord, he would be twirling it right about now. “Maybe I’m calling to have  _ girl-talk _ , for once. Didn’t you always want me to do that with you?” 

“Yes, but it was more for you to listen, and less for you to talk,” she teases back, but she sounds relaxed. He can hear the twins in the background, Glenda louder than Glenn, which isn’t surprising. What is surprising is how mature they sound. 

“Can I ask you to do the listening this time?” 

“Don’t I always do that?” 

“Shut up,” he grunts, but he’s grinning. He can’t help it, lovestruck shame be damned. There’s a pot of coffee still from the morning, when Andy had presumably made it prior to making his way to work, and he pours himself a cup. Cold. He’ll have to microwave it. He fills the mug anyways. He can microwave it and it will be fine. 

“I’m going to fuck him,” he states simply, when the coffee comes out. He sips at it while Tiffany chokes over whatever it is she’s been filling her mouth with. He assumes wine. He can hear Glenn asking if she’s alright. He laughs, his breath bubbling the coffee in his cup. “I just thought you should know. All those times you’ve teased me and I never had, this whole time. But this time, I’m gonna do it, Tiff. I’m gonna have him praying to every god he knows, and then I’m gonna make him worship me, and he’s gonna thank me for it.”

“I don’t need to lose my lunch,” Tiffany manages, after a few minutes of coughing into the phone. “I don’t want the details. Just don’t fuck it up.”

“I’ve never fucked it up in that department before,” he replies. 

“There’s a first for everyone.” 

He barks out a laugh. Not this time. He doesn’t say this, though. He just lets her prattle on about the kids, and he promises to be there for the twins’ graduation ceremony. It’s nice, knowing that Glenn even wants him there to begin with. It’s even nicer, knowing that despite everything, Tiffany can’t be anything except happy for him, pretending she is disgusted but subtly encouraging and egging him on. Wanting him to succeed. She keeps shooing the twins out of the room, and that’s how he really knows she’s invested, whether she admits it or not. He wonders - if Tiffany has been waiting this long for him to get his act together, how long has Andy been waiting? How often and how intensely has he been yearning in silence? 

No matter really, because it ends tonight. If Andy is in the mood, that is. Only if he is in the mood. Should that be the case, he is going to provide. He fixed the sink. He can stop Andy’s leak, too, if he just focuses on it. He’s tired of pretending he doesn’t love that boy, and he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want to be his one and only, the person he cannot be without. He’s tired of pretending Andy doesn’t drive him crazy and make him want to fuck the guy  _ silly _ , until he’s out of energy and begging for mercy. 

The way Andy had been last night, wound up and electric, he doesn’t doubt he feels the same again tonight. He just hopes he hadn’t read it all wrong. 


	3. 3

To say he is lightheaded and giddy would be an understatement. He can’t stop whistling or humming, for one, which has always been an annoying cliche to him, but it’s always been in his nature, and he’s doing it now, and he cannot stop. Even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. Screw himself and the universe he lives in that leaves him feeling empty and ashamed about it. He wants to fuck _Andy fucking Barclay_ , and he feels damn good about it. What really boggles his mind is why it took him so long to feel okay with it. It’s never been like him before, to hesitate and lie in wait the way he has with Andy. He usually knows quite quickly what he wants, and how to pounce on it. Rarely does he feel shy and uncertain. He’s continuing, as always, to learn that things are just _different_ when it comes to Andy. He’s starting to learn to accept it and take things as they come. 

One of the things coming, he hopes, being Andy. In the filthiest ways possible. He can arrange that, if Andy allows it. 

He doesn’t call him, he doesn’t text. He doesn’t want to scare Andy off before he even walks through the door, and somehow, he knows that if Andy hears from him, he’ll make his own insinuations and simply not come home. Probably, he’d escape to Kristen’s, and he has half a mind to ring her up and beg for her to politely turn Andy down, but he’s already tested her good graces with him enough. Better to let it rest. She might have shown signs that she feels less than animosity for him as of late, but he isn’t about to see just how far he can push his luck. He’s undergone the consequences of going too far enough times to know when it’s best to lie in wait. Besides, he’s pretty sure she doesn’t want any intel on how he intends to be balls-deep in her best friend. He certainly wouldn’t want to hear about it. 

No, he can’t call her. But he does cross his fingers and hope, and he leaves an offering in its respected place, just in case. Then, he busies himself with dinner, mostly because he’s hungry, but also because he knows. Anytime he does anything out of his way for Andy, even the smallest errand, the boy _melts_. Andy is so simple he appears complicated, but once he stopped overthinking and just started to show love as he normally would, it became obvious. 

“You seem in a better mood.” 

Andy’s voice throws him off his train of thought. He’d been so invested in his project - bacon and spinach stuffed chicken, he’s just gotten the hang of getting the meat tender all the way through, and he wanted to see if he could up the game a bit - that he hadn’t heard Andy come in. And he’d forgotten that he’d hurt Andy, and that he still wasn’t certain how. And that he had to make up for it. And that he’s going to. 

Andy just needs to be taken care of. 

“Nothing like the smell of meat to raise my spirits,” he returns, carefully flipping the stuffed breasts over. Partly true; the smell of good food does instantly transport him into a better disposition. But it has a minimal - if any - kind of influence on how he’s feeling right now. He’s lucky he’s almost done with his experiment, because just _knowing_ that Andy is home is distracting. Peeking over his shoulder to watch him bend over to slide off his shoes, swallowing harshly as he slowly peels off his jacket. Glances away quickly, as much as it pains him, as he unbuttons his shirt and rolls up his sleeves. Trying not to imagine himself helping Andy out of the rest of his clothes and laying him on the table, casually but rabidly explaining that his palette is craving another kind of meat tonight. Spreading him open while he shivers from the cold wood on his back, whetting his appetite on his thighs. 

He has to stop himself. One step at a time. Andy is particularly shy outside of the bedroom, and he doesn’t think he’ll get him undressed anywhere outside of that or a shower anytime soon. And they’ve never shared a shower together, either. For all he knows, they may not get a chance at all. 

Andy doesn’t respond to his lighthearted statement, humming instead under his breath and rummaging through the fridge, presumably for beer. He knows he’s right when he looks over and sees Andy cracking a bottle open. It’s a good sign that he’s in the same room with him, at least. He must not have fucked it up all too badly last night. Not that it matters much. Badly or no, it always sours whatever small progress they’re making with each other when he gets snarly on Andy. 

“Hey,” he starts, when Andy is mid drink. He reaches out for him, sauce spoon in hand still. He’s debating whether he wants to use sauce at all. If he’s cooked the chicken correctly, he won’t need it. Andy freezes for a minute, and he watches as his eyes dart between the beer bottle and his hand, as if trapped. Which, normally, would be a good thing - no, a _thrilling_ thing - but right now, it’s disappointing and annoying. Annoying, as in annoyed with himself. This is all his own damn fault. If he hadn’t traumatized the kid so much, they wouldn’t be here. 

“I’m not gonna hurt ya’, you know,” he adds, to which Andy frowns.

“I _know_ that,” Andy grumbles, sniffling indignantly. “You think I’m afraid of you after all this time? But I’m _not_ giving you my beer, if that’s what you were asking me for.” 

He’s lying. Chucky can see it in his pupils, in the bounce of his Adam’s apple. After all this time, in Andy’s own words. It hurts. He reaches anyways, because he has to. Because Andy’s always been the one doing the reaching, and risking being bitten, and it’s his turn to roll the dice. Andy has teeth, and he knows this. He just hopes that he chooses not to bite, and let him in instead. He reaches out and fingers the hem of his sleeve, and feels where it’s been crumpled from him tugging and shoving at it all day at work. 

“I know, I _know_ , I didn’t iron my shirt,” Andy continues, and Chucky can hear it in his voice. The annoyance. No - more than that, the hurt. “I don’t know what your deal is with me and the way I eat, or the way I dress, but I’m not ironing a shirt that’s only going to get crumpled again just to please you. We both know _you_ aren’t paying my bills.” 

He should be irritated. But more than ever, he just wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him until he can see a hazy glow come over his eyes, the kind he’s glimpsed a rare once in a while, when he’s drunk, or when they’re on the patio in the evening for a smoke and sunset catches his honey-iris. He wants to see that same glaze come over him, and he wants to be the reason why it does. 

“It’s true,” is what he says though, instead of all of these things he wants to say. It wouldn’t do any good to overwhelm Andy. The way he has to bite his tongue though, to stop himself from doing anything he normally would. Not following his instinct is hard, given his instinct is to attack first and ask questions later. “But that’s not what I was going to say.” 

Andy, suddenly, doesn’t have a response, which is rare. Chucky had gotten used to him always having a quick reply - and it was something he’d admired about him, the guy had really learned how to combat him in their verbal warfare - but he doesn’t now, silently sipping at his beer, his mind preoccupied. He tugs at him again, this time letting his fingers slip down his arm. It’s not about the wrinkled clothes. 

“I didn’t hurt myself either, so don’t start at me about that.” 

_Now_ he’s confused. It hadn’t crossed his mind before, but now that Andy’s mentioned it, it does, and it’s alarming, and he does exactly what Andy had thought he’d been doing before, which is pistol-quick whipping Andy’s arm over, just to look. There’s nothing fresh, which is a monumental relief. He doesn’t know how he’d react if he’d seen fresh cuts, knowing he had a part in it. Andy rolls his eyes and tears his arm away from him, crossing them across his chest defensively. He hadn’t found anything, but he feels as if he should have. 

Something clicks. “Do… do you think I’m trying to fuckin’ nag at you right now?” he asks, finally. Slow, like Andy was just last night. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Because… _shit,_ Andy, I’m not trying to do that. I was just trying to say I’m sorry.” 

It escaped him easier than he’d thought it would. He’s getting the hang of this apology thing. He sees Andy’s shoulders fall, but he doesn’t look upset, thankfully. He looks surprised, and relieved, and he hates that that has to be his reaction to it. It’s a mental note for later. 

Whatever Andy had been feeling before though, he’s masked it quickly, taking another swig and throwing the bottle into the garbage easily. If anyone had walked in the room just now, they would have no idea that Andy had been upset. Which makes him all the more frustrated. How does Andy find the way to pretend? Why can’t he be honest? Not that he’s much better, in the honesty department, but he knows for a solid _fact_ that he’s easier to decode than Andy is. Hieroglyphics and Cuneiform, the two of them. You just have to sit and study it for a minute, before you can start to read it fluently. Otherwise it just looks like a jumble or images that don’t connect or align for comprehension. 

Fuck that. Andy is Latin. A dead language. Not enough people speak it because there seems to be no need, except in rare cases like this one. Hell, the other two are probably more dead though. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t know that he really cares to make a distinct verdict on it.

“Don’t worry about it,” is what Andy finally says, in response to his apology. But he sees it in his eyes. This is one of those things that Andy is going to pretend he’s okay about, and then carry it around deep inside. Maybe write about it, in a notebook that he’ll half-hide and that Chucky will find later when he’s snooping. “I’m not all that sensitive.” 

Which means, Chucky is roughly translating (hopefully accurately, he’s not as fluent in Andy as he’d like to be), as _I’m really sensitive, I just pretend I’m not. Otherwise, I’ll get hurt too much_. 

There’s probably a million other reasons Andy grew up feeling sensitivity was weakness. _He_ certainly grew up that way. But he knows, without a doubt, that he is an exponential part of that. Or, at the very least, he didn’t help assuage that discipline. It’s all coming back around on _his_ ass though, because he’d like to know what he did so he can make up for it, and then bone Andy until the sun slinks in through the curtains. As much as Andy provides when _he_ wants hate-sex, it’s very obvious Andy does not feel the same. Fuck - maybe _Andy_ really is the pillow princess, now that he thinks about it.

This is all projecting though, and it doesn’t help, because Andy is walking off with yet another beer, and he’s trying to not have them approach all this sex stuff while drunk. He’s trying to do it all _right_ , for fuck’s sake, and Andy is making it all the more difficult. Not that things have ever been easy for them. Still. It’s hard wading between emotions and his very achy cock. 

He decides not to prod at it though, at least knowing from previous experience that pushing Andy to say anything won’t get them anywhere. Andy will open up when he feels ready. His job is to create that safe atmosphere in the first place. Which is a fucking hard job, and he really needs a raise for it. He has little to no credentials to perform at it. He’s going to try though. Starting with slapping his stuffed chicken breasts on the plate, and trying to ignore his mind comparing the stuffed meat with how he wants to stuff Andy. Which is harder than it looks. 

Blowing out his breath hotly, he takes the food out, trying not to be theatrical about it. Which is _also_ difficult to do, thank you very much. He’d like to slam the plate down right in front of Andy and watch the silverware clatter around the edge of the china. He doesn’t though, and he thinks that’s what some people would call _growth_. Andy makes a very small gesture showing he’s noticed, and Chucky almost doesn’t catch it, but he’s been so intentional on Andy that he does, and that’s a small success. He grunts, digging into his own food, and doesn’t turn his head when Andy starts to eat. He sits next to him but somehow gives him space, just by not looking. No drama. He bites his tongue hard midway through chewing on the chicken and it burns. 

At some point, it looks as if Andy wants to say something to him, and he waits, with bated breath, to hear it. But he simply hums and mumbles something about the food being good, and smokes instead, and gets up from the couch to fiddle around with some paperwork that he claims is for work. 

If he snaps now, it will all be for nothing. He breathes in, and he breathes out. Something Tiffany passed along from her therapist. Apparently, taking deep and controlled breaths resets the brain, and some other yahoo about it calming adrenaline. He hasn’t really researched it enough to form an opinion on it. Right now, he thinks it’s bullshit. But he’s going to try it anyways, for Andy’s sake. Or for his sake, just to tell Tiffany he really went through with it. He hates to admit it, but it does sort of work. He just has to really focus on it. 

“I’m a little out of it,” is what Andy finally says, and it’s all an excuse, Chucky knows this. They’re the same in so many little ways. “Work was busy and I’m kinda tired. I think I’m going to call it early.” 

The fact that he’s even explaining this is a telltale giveaway. If Andy really hadn’t wanted to talk about it, he would have left, just as he had the night before. He wouldn’t feel this incessant need to explain himself, and offer niceties. 

He doesn’t respond right away, but when the creak of the cushions alerts him that Andy is leaving off, as he had before, he snatches his hand (hopefully not too quickly, but he can’t help the natural instinct to _capture_ and _ensnare_. He’s a bit old to kick that habit by now). 

“Wait up for just a minute, would ya?” he asks, as if it isn’t out of the ordinary to ask. Which, unfortunately, it is. He racks his mind for something that is just subtle enough. “I got dessert too, you know.” 

Which, technically he does. It’s just ice cream, it’s not like he made it. But it’s good enough for Andy, who nods and mutters something about needing to look over some numbers anyways. Which Chucky is again, very roughly translating to him wanting to privately jot away thoughts he thinks will be private. He does feel a bit guilty about snooping through his things. Not bad enough to stop, though. 

Anyways. It means he’s going to have to bring it, although he doubts either one of them will get very far in actually eating it. He has other plans on where to put his mouth. 

That’s the other thing: he doesn’t want Andy to do anything, and that’s going to be another obstacle that’s going to be hard to hurdle over. Andy has always had this incessant _need_ to be doing something somehow, giving back. Making things _even_ . Nevermind the fact that this is precisely the reason things are actually very _uneven_ between them, because Andy’s version of _even_ is him going above and beyond what he should be doing to begin with. Always wanting to feel good enough. Especially with him.

Oh. 

_Oh._

He suddenly makes some rapid connections as to what might have made Andy so upset last night. For fuck’s sake. He really wishes he could shut his mouth sometimes. He knows better - _he knows better_. He almost wants to call Kristen up, tell her it’s time for her to do what she’s always wanted to. He deserves to be sacrificially murdered. Drawn and quartered, like in Biblical times. Maybe stoned to death. More significantly, maybe his lips should be sewn shut. It would save the both of them a hell of a lot of problems. 

Screw it. He’s getting the ice cream. 

Some wobbling and fighting with the scooper later, he makes his way into Andy’s room, which he wishes they’d just get over this whole ordeal and start _sharing_ . There’s no point in sleeping in separate rooms, with the amount of times they’ve ended up fucking. Which is a lot more than he’d ever imagined it would be, considering he’d never imagined it happening even _once_. He balances the bowls in one hand, nudging the bedroom door open with the other. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll get a chance to see the way it melts over Andy’s skin, watch it dribble into his belly button and around his cock, and further down. A little spin on a banana split. He’d be alright with cleaning up the mess. 

Andy is perched up on his bed, which is perfect. He is definitely scribbling into a notebook though, which is less perfect. He’ll deal with that later. He fakes a clogged throat and coughs his way into Andy’s attention, and it doesn’t take words for him to know what it means, when they lock eyes. Once upon a time, he hated what that meant. Now, he knows how lucky he is they even have the connection. 

“It’s nothing special,” he says. In the same manner Andy says things, when he does something kind. “This Moose Tracks needs to be eaten though, or it’ll get frostbite. Never knew ice cream could go bad. Always felt wrong, you know?” 

“Yeah, I get it,” Andy replies. He sets the journal aside, sitting up. Starting to stand. “You didn’t have to bring it here, though. I don’t want to get the sheets dirty.” 

If only he knew. Chucky wants to laugh. The ice cream should be Andy’s least worry in regards to his sheets. 

“Sit down,” he demands, but only sort of. Too much and Andy will get hostile. He has to hide the teeth under pleasantries, place a kiss where he bites, otherwise Andy will return the favor, and it won’t go the way he wants. “You can manage two scoops without fucking up your Big Lots bedspread.” 

Andy snorts, but he settles against the mattress again, and Chucky doesn’t comment on how he allows him to clamber up next to him and eat with him in silence. So much for his ice cream dream. He’ll have to save it for another time. 

He gets to watch Andy spoon it into his mouth though, which he can dirty up in his fantasies all he likes, without being too obvious. He just pretends he’s into his own bowl, clinking the spoon against the glass and taking small bites. Opportunity comes though, by the grace of the Lwa, and he makes a mental reminder that a thanks is in order, after this. It comes in the form of Andy being a clumsy shit - which is usual, and it’s something about Andy that Chucky finds more endearing than most things - and taking an unfortunate bite at the ice cream that ends up with some rolling off the spoon down his chin and shirt. 

“Jesus Christ,” is what Andy mumbles, swiping at his collar with the spoon. Chucky’s hand is on his before he can touch his mouth. 

“Let me get it,” he says, before he can stop himself. For once, he’s alright with his mouth moving on its own. Andy stills, and he can see that familiar dusk in his eyes. He looks away because he isn’t sure what to say. Andy has always had a hard time telling him when he wants anything from him. He’s always having to coax it out, slowly and patiently, and it would almost be a chore, except the reward that follows never fails to disappoint. He lets the words syrup off his tongue, like molasses, as he swipes at the frozen dairy on the corner of Andy’s mouth. “Let me take care of ya’, sweetheart.” 

_Thum, Thum. Thum thum thum_ . He can hear it. He can feel it. He can see it too, the way Andy’s heart is threatening to pulsate through his ribs, crack his sternum open and plop right into his hands. Andy wants something, _badly_ , and yet he is _so_ afraid to say it. He can’t even look at him, eyes closed and face turned to the mattress, as if looking away changes the truth. He knows what’s coming, and for some reason, he’s fighting his own desire to just let it come. 

Chucky reaches out for him and brushes his cheek softly. Feels his beard stroke his knuckles.He wipes at the ice cream with his thumb and licks it off, tasting it. Tasting _him_. Andy whimpers, lips curling. 

“Shh- you’re alright, kid,” he rasps, and lowers his hand just against his chest to push gently with the base of his palm. He feels like he can hardly breathe. It hurts just to talk. The skin on Andy’s clavicle is smooth, soft. Like butter, cliche as it is. If he isn’t careful, he’ll slip off and lose touch, and then Andy will be gone again. “There you go. Nice and easy now. I gotcha.” 

“ _Please_ ,” Andy shudders, but Chucky notices he does not move his hands from where they’re gripping the sheets. Something about that is comforting, and a bit empowering. Andy will do anything he asks, if he just does this right. If he does not fuck things up just this one time. He guides him, slowly, carefully, until Andy is flush against the pillows, and he can sink his hands into the spongy mattress beneath them. He eases his leg over Andy’s hips, balancing himself above him, watching. Slowly pushing into the soft flesh of his belly, his thighs. Andy chokes and finally relinquishes the sheets, only to grasp the pillows behind him, desperately searching for an anchor. He leans over him, petting his sides. Holding onto him for the two of them. 

“You have to say it for me, _Andy_ ,” he insists, dragging his name out of his lungs, like the exhale of a cigar, and now he’s laying it on thick. Slow and steady. _Aahn-dee_. “I’m not goin’ forward until you tell me what you need. I want to treat you right, but I can’t if you don’t give me the greenlight. Just tell me what I need to do, angel.” 

Andy’s breathing only increases. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, on the contrary, they seem more shut than ever, as if glued for his life’s sake. He pushes the fringe of hair along his forehead aside, and Andy shivers. 

Andy is much larger than him. And much stronger. If he’d really wanted him off, he would have pushed him off. But, just in case, he hesitates over him, nuzzling their noses together, watching Andy’s cheeks redden and feeling his heart rate increase. As obvious as it is, however, he still doesn’t make another move, otherwise, he will more than definitely fuck it up. He stays frozen, until he can hear Andy sheepishly find his voice again, with a plea as softly shaded as the bedside lamp.

  
“Don’t make me wait like this, Chucky. _Please_ . Just… oh, _fuck_ , kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I thought Chucky was difficult? Andy really said, "Here- hold my beer," huh? Anyways, here's to me finally being able to begin writing the final chapter. For real this time. Maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

Chucky doesn’t waste any time complying to Andy’s request. Heaven and hell know he’s waited long enough. And he’s certainly not the type to make his lover beg (although, the idea is tempting when it comes to Andy. But Andy’s also not the type to hold back, once they get here. There just isn’t any need for it). 

With hands that are usually strong, sure, and demanding, Andy shakily finds a hold in his hair, fingers curled just behind his ears. Chucky can feel his pulse through his fingertips, twitching rapidly into his scalp. Andy pulls him in closer, and he places his hands on his cheeks, cupping his face, drowning him with tidal-like force. Each time they break apart, Andy hums in a warm and wounded kind of relief, body curling upward slowly. 

They’ve been here before - Chucky saddled in his lap, hands on hands on _hands_ , unable to touch enough, unable to be close enough. Some things have changed, but some have not. Chucky still wants to crawl under Andy’s skin, as he always had, but not in the ways that shrines and ritualistic chants would bring. He isn’t sure there really is anyway to accomplish that, through Vodou or otherwise. 

He doesn’t want it to continue the way it normally does, though. He’d like to abstract the process, invert the coloring of the theme. He pushes at Andy again, nudging him away, loving and hating the way Andy fights to stay close. He loves to see the yearning, he hates not fulfilling it all right away. Especially considering it is everything he wants to do. 

“No,” he murmurs under his breath, despite the twings to just let Andy consume him again. He presses into him until he’s lying flat again, chest heaving and eyes dazed. Confused. It’s not that he _wants_ to be a cocktease, but when Andy looks at him like _this?_ He might do it a couple more times, just to see that face again. Not now though. This is make up sex. He can’t be playing a hard game when he’s trying to undo his shit. “I don’t want you to do anything. You lay back and let me take care of ya’, baby.” 

Andy’s face is unreadable in the soft lighting. He rubs his arms and feels a certain type of thrumming in his veins. Andy is shaking - he’s fucking _quivering_ , and he doesn’t know what the issue is. If someone told him all he had to do was lay back and enjoy the ride - he’d take it, no questions asked. He’s confused about Andy's reaction to it. 

It doesn’t clear any of his questions when he plants another kiss along his cheekbone (he was going to go down, and down, and _down,_ nipping and licking every trace of Andy until he could claim him all as _his_ , and _only his_ ) and tastes a heavy bitterness. Like tasting the ocean, only they’re in Andy’s bed, and it isn’t hot enough for Andy to sweat, so it has to be that he’s _crying_ , which is not at all where he wanted to go with this. Frankly, it makes his dick droop over like a rotted flower, and he wants to scream, but he’s just confused and alarmed. 

“Andy,” he chokes, horny and frustrated, “What the fuck is wrong? What did I do this time?” 

He doesn’t meant to shake him, he really doesn’t, but it happens anyways, because he’s _upset_ , that Andy is upset right now, and he was trying to make things right and he’s so damn tired of fucking up when it comes to Andy. He just wants to do right by him for _once._ Which means that instead of balancing in the refrain, and keeping his hands to himself, he grasps at Andy’s wrists before he can swipe at his very dewy eyes, and shakes him. He really fucking _sucks_. He’s always known this- but damn, it feels like he just got a new prescription for moments like this. He shakes him and immediately regrets it, because Andy tears his hands away and shoves him off. 

“This is a bad idea,” Andy says, and Chucky feels the sinkhole of a mattress threatening to swallow him whole. “We don’t need to do this right now.” 

“Andy,” he tries again, and gets knocked back once more, this time by his feet. “Andy - what the _fuck_ -” 

“Get _out_ ,” Andy growls. Nothing is right. Which, he knows in his case, is usually how it goes, but he was really banking on an exception to the rule this time. He’s set himself up to sting more than usual, hoping that maybe things wouldn’t go too off the rails this time. He should have known better. Now he’s unsure of what to do. Leave or stay. 

What does Andy want? Because ultimately, that’s what’s important here. He’s _somewhat_ learning how to be less selfish. 

He doesn’t move, and he notices Andy doesn’t move him either. That’s one signal. He assesses the rest. Andy is leaning away to smoke, so that his back is turned. In a minute, he might try to turn back around and pretend that his little outburst hadn’t even happened. He definitely caught him mid-tear, and that probably upset him as well. He gets that. But damn- the amount of times Andy has caught _him_ slipping, you’d think the guy would feel a little more comfortable when it’s his turn. Apparently not. 

His mind runs haywire. He has to breathe, and try again. Fuck Tiffany being right. He tries not to short-circuit and blow up. He has to make a move, or Andy will make one for him, and things will go the way neither of them wanted. He has to make the right move, and not let his aroused temper get in the way. He stands, feeling the mattress sink under his feet. Best not to say anything, maybe. Andy is saying something without saying anything, and if he’s just _quiet_ , and _listens_ , he might just catch something. 

Gently, he threads his fingers into his hair, fighting the urge to tug and snap Andy’s head back, to expose him and go for his jugular. Just to suck along his neck where he swallows, to take him down one critical point at a time. He doesn’t though, and just thinks about doing it, and Andy doesn’t push him off again, pressing fingers into his eyes instead and exhaling with a shrinking shudder. 

“Sorry,” he coughs out, and his trembling voice is rough and in need of a lozenge. “I didn’t mean to…I wasn’t trying to ruin the mood… I don’t know...” 

He sounds in pain, which is _not_ how Chucky wants him to sound when he’s trying to give him the night of his life. He sounds conflicted about wanting this, which was the obstacle that had him so irate in the first place and had him spewing off like a mishandled bottle rocket. Which has only resulted in more of a mess, and now they’re here, and he’s trying to pick up the aggressive confetti he’s spilled around in Andy’s brain. There’s so many tiny pieces. 

“Andy,” he tries again, even softer, beyond what he thought was possible. The last time he was this soft, Tiffany’s hands were stained with blood and she was undergoing copious amounts of unimaginable regret, and he felt regret along with her, wishing he hadn’t tainted her with himself. It’s a strange sort of requiem to it, the way he feels the same now. It hadn’t ended well with her. He wants to put all his power into making sure there won’t be an addendum to his string of poor choices. “I’m the one who should be sorry. It wasn’t you that lost their shit.” 

“I told you to leave,” Andy presses, and he pushes the hairline along the back of his neck to kiss him again, and it’s not that he’s _trying_ to convince Andy of anything he’s adverse to, but he _is_ trying to convince him that he can do this right and that he isn’t going to create a cataclysm out of this. Andy fumbles at his words, and it’s a clumsy continuum. “I fucked it up, Chucky, I…” 

“Stop. _Stop_.” He interrupts, but it’s because he doesn’t want Andy to dig himself any deeper in this hole. Nevermind the fact that he was the first to press the shovel in and twist. Andy, if possible, holds himself in even tighter, body coiled and curled in some strange emotional hibernation. Now he tugs, but only as a gentle persuasion, and he captures his neck in a steady hold, kissing him again, and it’s the way Andy lets him. It feels like salvation. 

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” Andy continues, and he almost doesn’t hear it, he’s so focused on his pulse, and how it beats in his palm. And then he’s even quieter, barely even a breath. “I just want to be good enough.” 

The whisper is cycling in his mind. He’d been correct in his assumptions, but he still feels as if he’s fallen downwind, unable to catch his breath, His chest heaves, and Andy’s eyes are wet, but he doesn’t pull away this time, and he thumbs the tears into his cheek bones. “And you _are,_ ” he punctuates, and Andy’s hands are on his waist now, and when their foreheads brush, he holds them there, still. “Let me show you, angel.” 

Something like a whine intermingled with a moan escapes Andy. “ _My_ angel,” he pinions into him, firmer this time, catching his cry on his tongue. Tangling himself in soft hair and softer skin. “My _boy._ ” 

“ _Chucky_ ,” Andy whimpers, and whatever imprisonment he’d been keeping his bleeding heart in, it’s opened and sobbing now. Chucky kisses the escaping tears, silent and waiting. He doesn’t need to say much; he isn’t sure how he’d say it anyways. Telling Andy _I’m going to fuck you raw_ doesn’t seem right, although it’s normally what he would resort to. He feels out of sorts using _make love_ , although it fits the best in regards to how this is unfolding, and saying _let’s have sex_ is downright goofy. Besides, it’s all a conglomeration of all these, the messages reflected in each phrase. 

Hands on his chest, beating palm against beating heart, he tucks his nose under Andy’s chin, sucking at the sweet flesh of his neck. He tugs at his t-shirt, sliding it up, fingers digging into the soft skin wrapping around the muscle and bone of his Andy, his friend, his enemy, his _lover_. How could he ever have dared to make Andy feel unworthy and incomplete, when he is everything anyone could look for in a person all assorted in one living, thrumming soul? His insanity runs deeper than he’d thought, to be reckless enough to accomplish this without a moment’s hesitation. 

“Take this off,” he murmurs into him, on the outskirts of his ear, and his teeth catch Andy’s soft lobe. He can’t seem to aid Andy in removing his shirt fast enough, fingers trailing every inch of warm, fevery skin, palming shoulders and arms, palpating stomach and hips, piquing breastbone and nipples. Where his hands go, his mouth follows, and behind he leaves blushing evidence of purpling bruises along the curvature of Andy’s body. An emblem to his ever growing desire. Andy, for all intents and purposes, clings to him, body limp but hands firm, harsh and ragged breathing verberating through his chest. Chucky thumbs at his nipples just to watch him throw his head back and _pant_ in wanting. 

“You’re so _unfair_ , Andy,” he murmurs, running the pads of his thumbs in circlets, mesmerized. Andy is nothing short of _beautiful,_ falling apart for him. He catches Andy’s open mouth in his, tasting his pleasure, swallowing his undulating moaning. “I didn’t expect you to be so sensitive here like this. You’re making me fuckin’ _drool_ and I’ve barely started on you.” 

“How do you think I feel?” Andy returns, desperate and whining. “I - _ah_ -” 

“Talk to me, Andy,” Chucky says, nipping at him, pulling at his waistband. He wants to see what Andy looks like when he is completely undone, what he will sound like. What he will say. He tugs at his pants again, and Andy falls back on his elbows, legs parted, a nonverbal agreement. He doesn’t wait to read the fine print; he’s ready to sign the bottom line, to seal it with a kiss. “I want to hear you.” 

He unbuttons, unzips, undresses. Andy is _hard_ , and it isn’t as if he hasn’t sucked him off before, but something about the air makes him careful this time. He glances up at Andy and lets them connect eye contact, and watches Andy drop his gaze, face aglow, before kissing along his inner thighs, easing his legs further apart. Andy claps a hand over his mouth, but he keeps finding that Andy’s eyes never leave him, unable to not look. The closer he gets, the warmer Andy’s skin becomes, tepid against his lips. The salt and heat of him is a stark contrast to the way his legs shake, as if freezing. He pushes his hands into the mattress, just under soft and round muscle and pulls flesh apart and _squeezes,_ and Andy stares, full moons on his every move.

“Hey- you’re _trembling,_ kid,” he pauses, concerned. The bitter irony in the way that it’s the last thing he wants, for Andy to be afraid. When he reaches for him, cradling his face, Andy falls into it, half-lidded eyes and heavy breath. “What’s bouncing around in that noggin of yours?” 

“Sorry,” Andy coughs, voice dry. He swipes shaky hands down his legs with a small grin. “I’m… I’m just nervous, that’s all, I guess.” 

“Nervous? This isn’t the same guy who flipped me over and fingerbanged me all the way up the staircase to heaven, that’s for sure,” Chucky exhales in disbelief. “It’s not like we haven’t done this before.” 

“I’ve never done it from, you know… from _this_ side of things,” Andy replies, voice getting quieter and quieter as he continues his sentence. “I didn’t realize it would feel so _different_.” 

“Andy,” Chucky stops him, because if he doesn’t get this in now, Andy will close up again, and he might not open up for a long time. He kisses the inner side of his knee, working his way up, and Andy blushes, but he doesn’t try to hide this time. He smiles, and he tries not to show teeth, and he presses a kiss into his thigh. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to. I _told_ you I was gonna take care of you, angel. It’s just like how you always do me. You treat me just how I need you to. Only this time, it’s my turn to return the favor.” 

Andy relaxes into the pillows again, hands in the sheets, and Chucky drinks in the vision of his marked and vulnerable body before stroking his cock, trying not to become too smug at how Andy twitches immediately, a soft cry escaping his bruised throat. “Okay,” he manages, shaky, gasping on his words when Chucky responds by putting him in his mouth. “Ah, _ah_ \- Chucky… _please_ …” 

“Gorgeous,” Chucky drawls around him, salivating on the way he rolls his hips upward and forward. He twirls his index finger in the cleft of his pelvis, memorizing his breathless laughter and jerk of limbs. “You’ve got a smile that puts heaven to shame, baby boy. I gotta make you smile more often.” 

“Chucky, that _tickles…_ ” Andy stutters out, squirming under his hands, but somehow, staying put. As if he wants him to continue. Chucky gladly obliges, because it is anything and _everything_ for Andy Barclay, but also because when he falls apart, practically giggling, he can see the way his eyes wrinkle and his dimples deepen, and he can’t help his own snuff of laughter that comes puffing out, his heart is so achingly full. He hadn’t realized how warm joy feels, close to exploding in his chest, and he digs into Andy all the more, pressing fevered kisses madly, feeling Andy fall helpless against his teasing and touching. Feeling even more fulfilled each time.

He taps at his legs again. “Open up for me, you little fuckin’ _cutie,_ ” he says, and if he bares his teeth, Andy doesn’t seem to mind too much. “I’m going to eat you alive.” 

Andy groans, and he can taste his excitement before he tastes him, wet and hot, and inviting. Somehow, it makes sense how easily Andy lets him in now, without question, without doubt. All he had to do was make him feel _safe_ , and the rest falls into place. Easier said than done, but he’s willing to bet there isn’t an adrenaline rush like this one, knowing Andy _wants_ and _enjoys_ him partaking in the worship of his most private places, cantillating his name like a private prayer, and it’s a holy commemoration between just the two of them. Andy buries his face in the pillow, and he can hear his muffled sighing, feeling him shift and open up, taking his tongue beautifully. As if Andy was capable of ever giving him any less than perfect, and he isn’t surprised, how insanely _wonderful_ he is, but it still leaves him shell-shocked. 

“You’re _such_ a good boy, Andy,” he praises him, and Andy moans, twisting around him. He circles his finger around the tight flesh before intruding, pushing against soft and warm organs, coaxing Andy open. “You’re so eager to please, so eager to let _me_ please. So perfect. You want me to fuck you, don’t you, angel? I can feel you throbbing, you’re so desperate for it. You want to feel me inside you? I promise I’ll make you feel so good. My good boy.” 

“ _Yes,_ ” Andy begs, and when he reaches for him, Chucky takes his hand and kisses his knuckles, finger-fucking him slowly, gently, spreading him. He prods and pokes at him, watching his breathing grow rapid and short, listening to his soft whimpering, “Yes, _please, fuck, yes_.” 

He can’t tear his clothes off fast enough. He can’t tear his clothes off _fast enough_. Andy is as perfect as a long-awaited gift, eyes warm amber and heart golden, pure as freshly fallen snow, and he cannot tear his clothes off fast enough, to show him just how much he sees it. How much he _means_ it. He wants to fuck his insecurities out of him, until there isn’t a doubt in his mind that he loves him, _he loves him,_ and he should never wonder about where they stand, or what they mean together. He pushes just behind his knees to hold him open and sinks into him, groaning. Pleasure garbling out of his mouth. 

“God _damn_ , you are _sweet_ ,” he near whistles, thrusting into him in slow, languid motions, savoring every second and every inch inside him. He slaps Andy’s thigh, unable to help himself. He feels rabid; he wants to howl like a full-moon wolf, ready to hunt and devour. “You feel _perfect_ , fuck - you _are_ perfect…” 

He shifts and penetrates, deep and fast, and Andy covers his eyes, but there is no question as to how he feels. Chucky doesn’t think he’s ever talked this much, babbling uncontrollably. His hands gripping at the pillows above his head, and he’s lovely to look at, he’s _so fucking lovely_ to look at, cock bouncing each time he goes in, face twisted in absolute ecstasy, and _he_ is the sole reason for it. He can’t think of anything better; Andy has always been an addiction, and he knows if he ever tries to give him up, he’ll relapse. He just _knows_ it. He’s never going to risk it. The withdrawal would be too much.

“Fuck you feel _so_ , good, angel,” he says again, snapping his hips hard, feeling Andy contract around him each time. Andy shakes his head, bewildered, so he pushes, determined. “You’re _amazing,_ baby, just amazing.” 

“Perfect little angel,” he croons. “You’re too good for me.”

“ _Chucky,_ ” Andy sobs, finally.

“I mean it,” Chucky replies. He pushes down on him, pushes into him, faster now. Andy needs to hear it. He needs to feel it, and believe it. He drives into him each time he speaks again, making it as clear as he can. Hitting him where he needs it the most, until he can’t do anything but take it- all of it.“My _beautiful_ boy. You’re amazing. I can’t get enough of you. The way you treat me right, even when I don’t deserve it. I never deserve you, and yet here you are, aching and all turned on, just for _me_. All for me.” 

“...for _you_ ,” Andy echoes, lost. He’ll guide him back. He can feel it with each bleeding breath Andy takes. “All for you. _Please_ … I’m - I’m close, I’m so close...” 

“It’s okay,” Chucky murmurs, lovingly, before promptly ramming into him. The slap of sweat and skin and heat is driving him near mad along the edge, but he needs Andy to make it there first. “Come for me now. Be good, baby boy. Sweet thing. I know you’re close. Come on.” 

He doesn’t know why it’s when he caresses him, thumbs pressing small circles into his hip bones, that Andy comes with the softest cry, body unwinding into orgasm. Chucky pumps his cock in his hand, drawing him through it, and when Andy tightens around him, he holds him steady, releasing inside him, hoping every word is pushed in and buried deep, so he won’t ever forget. He can clean the spunk out. He can’t clean the words away, and he hopes he never tries. 

After a moment, he pulls out, feeling his leg shake from his ebbing adrenaline. Andy is still panting heavily, body shivering but still open. Give him a couple of minutes, and he’s going to fuck him again, once the blood finds its way back down to his balls. Knowing how damn attracted he is to Andy, he knows it won’t take too long for that to work its way around. For now though, he crawls up onto his stomach again, petting his cheeks and feeling where he’s rendered him tender. 

“Hey you,” he coos, when Andy doesn’t speak. He seems far away, shaking himself back to reality, blushing immediately when he sees Chucky looking. He can’t help but to admire everything about him right now, in a fragile state unique only to post climax. He can feel himself getting aroused all over again, that familiar warmth pooling in his gut, tugging at his cock. He wonders just how sweet he’ll sound, when he fucks him again. How weak his cries will be, but how eager and pliable he’ll be, ready to take him again. 

“Hey yourself,” Andy manages, hoarse. He finally shifts, propping himself up against the headboard. Bashful when normally he isn’t. Usually, he has something to say, something clever and short. It’s a good look on him, but he thinks Andy looks good no matter what, so he’s not sure it really matters. It’s just a new look, so it comes with a curious excitement. He’s got that sunset light in his eyes though, the one where he wants to say something and doesn’t know how. A silent begging. 

“Well, Andy?” he asks. He tucks his hand behind Andy’s ear, pulling the tangles out of his hair. Andy leans his cheek against him, eyes soft as doves. “What is it, kid? Talk to me.” 

Andy opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, chewing on his bottom lip, contemplating. Chucky can see him overthinking already, the way he always does, where he works himself into an anxious mess. He pulls at him, pressing a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth, working his way up his cheek, to his temple. “Whatever you’re thinking in there, stop. This isn’t one of those things where I say dumb shit because I’m horny. I meant everything I said to ya’.” 

His nose. He has to kiss his nose. It’s the way it’s turned up so perfectly. The way it scrunches up and goes all pink when Andy is feeling shy. Andy inhales sharply, and puts his arms around him and clings to him. He keeps at it, pecking at him until Andy is breaking again, laughing and shaking his head madly. 

“Okay, _okay,_ ” he surrenders, mid-snicker. He sighs, and when Chucky sits up, it’s Andy looking up at him, mesmerized. “ _Fuck_.” 

So he’s got a solid four. Almost a fistful of things. He slides off Andy, giddy, and tugs at him to follow over. “Come here,” he says, patting his stomach, feeling lazy and content like a cat that’s found it’s perfect sunbeam. “I know how you get, you big softie. Let me hold you. I told you I was gonna take care of you, now come on.” 

Andy ducks his head sheepishly, but he comes, like Chucky knew he would, sighing contentedly when his head nestles just atop his chest. Chucky interlaces fingers in hair, stroking his scalp, feeling his breath even out. Waiting for round two, but enjoying the moment in its currency, letting himself get gooey and not feeling badly about it. Surprisingly, the universe does not fall into apocalyptic shock. The more you know. 

“I _am_ sorry,” he speaks up again, and Andy doesn’t move, but he knows he’s listening. “Shit, Andy - I’m really sorry about last night. Don’t let me do that to you anymore, you hear me? Tell me to shut the fuck up or something. _Don’t_ let me hurt you like that anymore. Deal?”

He lifts Andy’s head up, and there’s a satisfied grin on his face. “Deal,” Andy says simply, curling his arms around him and burying his nose back in his neck. “If you do, you owe me a night like this again.”

“Negative- I plan to give you more nights like this as a status quo. Start expecting it on the menu,” Chucky replies, and Andy snorts, but he doesn’t argue about it. He pets him, his boy, his _angel,_ who is tender and in need of him. It’s nice to know there’s a reciprocation of feeling. It’s a confidence booster. “You’re gonna be craving me so crazy you’re gonna have the _shakes_ for me, baby.” 

___

“What did you do?” Kristen asks, pointedly and accusingly. The women are over for dinner that weekend, as they have been before, but how she spots something immediately, Chucky doesn’t know. He blames Andy. After he’d fucked him not once, but _twice_ more, Andy’s been nothing but starry-eyed and clingy, not too different from a stray puppy who finally got adopted from an overcrowded shelter at Christmas.

He doesn’t think _he’s_ acting too differently. 

Well, maybe he is. He’s had to stop himself from slapping Andy’s ass, or squeezing his cheeks, to save the both of them the embarrassment. He _thinks_ he’s doing a pretty good job of it, though. Kristen has just always been frighteningly intuitive when it came to them. 

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” he replies evenly, sipping at his beer. If he’s honest, he really isn’t trying to feign innocence. She and Jess share a look, and Jess snorts. 

It was his idea to invite them over, and although it has been tradition, it was a bit out of character for him, but suddenly, having them around didn’t intimidate him as much. Andy had noticed, but hadn’t said anything, when he’d eagerly suggested he’d cook for them. It was as if the guilt he’d been harboring has been slowly melting off each time he took Andy to bed, treating him gently, kindly, making him dizzy and overwhelmed in pleasure. For the first time, he looked into Kristen’s eyes when he opened the door without any trepidation, and he knows it had jolted her. He has to be oozing joy. He can’t help it. Andy makes him go _stupid_. He’s fighting the urge to touch him now.

“I can’t either,” Kristen admits, nose wrinkling in suspicion. Her eyes dart between him and Andy, who looks down at his food, suddenly interested in the glazed fish. He pokes at it with a fork, stuffing his mouth. A good way to exit the conversation without leaving the room and being obvious. There’s a strange twitching that begins in the corner of her mouth, almost as if she wants to smile, but doesn’t want to admit it. He can see an eager curiosity in her eyes though, and it’s nice, that they don’t have to say anything - almost as if they’ve become old and dear friends. They can just look at Andy and know that he’s happy, and for the both of them, that’s all that matters. “But I know something’s different. I can _sense_ it.’ 

“Probably just an eclipse,” Chucky says, twirling his finger around in the air, and she stares at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot damn, we did it. Thanks for sticking around.


End file.
